


Your Scent Has Overwhelmed My Senses

by Hino



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Onesided, written for a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino/pseuds/Hino
Summary: There is a silence in the Blackwagon, as two of the occupants tend to their own Vocations.Oralech is determined to find out what Brighton's Vocation is.





	Your Scent Has Overwhelmed My Senses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GarbageCnt06](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarbageCnt06/gifts).



The Blackwagon is full of secrets and hidden ideas. Someone is always looking over their shoulder, or keeping a piece of paper facing them, or speaking with a hand cupped around their mouth in hopes of diverting attention. Others such as Brighton resort to the Reader’s Telepathy to get around their ideas, without the wrong ears hearing them. Overall, it generates an aura of mistrust, that seems to dim their abilities as a Triumvirate, and their Glory which extinguishes the flames.

Oralech is the only one who seems to notice this weighing down on them all. He tries to keep no secrets from his fellow Exiles, for there is no hope in hiding anything from Brighton, and Erisa will find out anything she so truly desires by offering their Reader something on a piece of paper that no matter what, Oralech cannot decipher. Still, there is nervous glances and hidden agendas, and it is with a heavy heart, that Oralech finds himself starting a plan; enlist the help of the Drive Imps, and find out what in the name of the Eight Scribes is going on.

 

Being sneaky isn’t too hard for Oralech, despite his size. He’s had more than enough practice making sure he walks heel-to-toe, minimizing the sound he makes on the Blackwagon’s creaky wood floors. The Drive Imps had chirped and screeched to him earlier, and while he didn’t have nearly as much luck translating their noises as he had with Ti’zo, they’d told him that something was happening in the entrance room of the Wagon where they stored their trinkets.

There was silence in the Wagon, and it was unusual. Even in their most quiet moments, Erisa would be picking a fight with Brighton, or he would mumbling little phrases from the Book of Rites, trying desperately to enlighten them all on their travels. Now though, there was only the soft creak of the Wagon as it rocked across the uneven ground of the Downside Prairie. 

Heel-to-toe, he reminded himself gently as he crossed the common room to the entrance, stepping over discarded playing cards, papers, and other trash that Erisa had cast aside and never bothered to tend to. The floor refused to creak underfoot, as if it too wanted Oralech to see what his Triumvirate was hiding. It made his heart thunder in his chest, almost fearful of what he’d see once he stepped out into the tiny hall and into the space where one of his companions was meant to be.

 

Oralech had stepped into the entrance room and almost wished the floor had creaked. Sitting in the corner with the raiments was Brighton. His own clothes were discarded in a messy pile by the door, while the robes they used for the Rites were sitting beside him. It took the man a moment, but he placed the robes as his own.

Brighton was holding his robes in one hand, and his cock in another, and from the faint glimmer of sweat that Oralech could see from some light streaming in a nearby window, the Reader was getting awfully into it. His breathing was choppy, and from the way he was arching his back and trying to practically suffocate himself with Oralech’s scent, he was close to finishing his work.

Heel-to-toe, Oralech entered, stopping before Brighton and waiting. It took a moment for the other Nomad to notice, but once he did, he stiffened, hand mid jerk, eyes slowly trailing upwards to meet Oralech’s gaze.

“You...” Brighton could barely speak, shocked that before him was the man he was thinking of. He lowered the robes, using them to cover his crotch, then remembering who they belonged to, removed them. “Oralech... I-”

He was silenced as the man bent down, squatting before him. Oralech reached out, grabbing Brighton’s wrist, the one owning the hand currently wrapped around his dick, and jerked it up once, making Brighton moan. “Finish the job.”

Brighton stared at Oralech. “E-Excuse me?” His voice was a pitiful squeak, and any other words that he might have used were immediately twisted into a whine as Oralech jerked his wrist again.

“Finish the job.” There was no room for compromise, given the way that Oralech was speaking to him. His voice was hard, although Brighton was harder, and it made the blonde swallow nervously, raising the cloth to his face again and taking in the scent. His motions were shaky now, weak with his unease, and Oralech forced his hand to speed up, smirking at the way Brighton’s moans changed in pitch and tone, smothered in the robes.

 

Oralech didn’t have to play with him long. Brighton was already close to climax before the Nomad had shown up, and the way Oralech guided his hand, combined with the fact he kept eye contact the entire time, led to Brighton releasing, head thrown back and spine arching. He spilled onto himself, onto Oralech’s hands, and even onto the raiments, chest heaving with deep breaths as the tension drained from his body.

“You couldn’t last?” came the mildly insulted question as Oralech released his wrist, grabbing Brighton’s nearby clothes and smearing the semen onto the shirt, in order to clean his hand.

Weakly, Brighton spoke, trying to focus past the spots in his eyes. “I’ve been doing this for a while,” he mumbled, oblivious to Oralech using his shirt as a rag. He only noticed when the man stood, throwing the cum-stained shirt into his face. “What?”

“You’re disgusting,” Oralech spat, turning to walk away. His footsteps were not silent this time; instead the wood creaked underfoot, foregoing the subtle heel-to-toe steps he’d employed before. Brighton sighed, dropping the raiments into his lap, subsequently coating them in more semen. There was the distinct sound of a door in the blackwagon closing, and the Reader grumbled, forcing himself to his shaky feet.

“You’re right,” he mumbled, holding both his stained shirt, and the raiments, both needing to be washed.

 

“I’m disgusting.”


End file.
